Lung Cancer Noir

So many times, family means a code of loyal silence

I have this recurring nightmare that my mother is alive.

She never died.

I've made a terrible mistake.

I have to call my editor.

We can't publish the book.

I don't know how I could have made such a wild mistake.

I mean, she looked dead.

I signed the papers. I let the man from the cut-rate crematorium in Albuquerque take her body away.

But in the dream, she isn't dead.

And in the dream, she's really pissed about the book.

I can't get through to my editor. Of course I can't get through. It's too late. It's already out, anyway. My editor can't do anything.

Maybe I can hide the books.

Or.

Maybe.

Just walk away.

— Bringing Up the Dead, by Ariel Gore